


Vices

by oneeyed_hellhound



Series: Brothers of the Blade Universe [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneeyed_hellhound/pseuds/oneeyed_hellhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A history of Slick's addictions, rehabilitation, and the ghost that remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Seed

**Author's Note:**

> the first of an au series I've been working long and hard on with my dear friend. details found at [this tumblr](http://brothersoftheblade.tumblr.com/)

Your first time is during the war.

Which is a silly phrase, since the war was going on before you were born, and hasn’t stopped.

You’re newly promoted Archagent— prematurely, you think, although everyone in the front has seen more than enough already. All prematurely. All of them.

You have trouble sleeping that’s only partly to do with the gun thunder rolling above you in a constant storm. When the stationed medic recommends it at first, you shrug it off. You don’t like anything messing with your head that doesn’t come in a cardboard pack or a flask. Even if morphine is the commonplace panacea for anything from a headache to a blown off leg.

You start having those dreams again. More often, anyway. The ones that made you worry you’re more like your dad than you thought, that you’d end up like he did when he was a kid. Terrified. Or if not that, drowning in a maelstrom of shifting things in the black space between stars.

Those migraines are taking on a troubling edge, and the more the doctor pushes it, the more you begin to wonder.

A bout of insomnia after two of your unit are shot down, another three taken down from pneumonia, and it’s all it takes. A leader can’t be sleeping on his feet with people depending on him.

Somewhere amidst all the lectures to persuade you, the real final push is how much you just want to get a fucking rest from the crazy wheel of it all.

“I never really uh… took this before,” you say, watching him fill the glass and steel syringe while the two of you are hunkered into the hole in the ground that everyone called a medical ward.

“Hmm, not many have. It’s good for the nerves, I hear you have trouble with that.”

You respond with barely a defensive snarl under your breath, and hold it as he brings your arm steady. You really aren’t sure of it at all, your gut is screaming at you to chicken out, but you’re so fucking tired you don’t really care anymore. You don’t care. And you suppose this is a better alternative to breaking to pieces inside. A small pinch, and not much else as the miracle drug works into the vein.

You wait. He waits.  Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, the nervous tic in your foot settles, your hands loosen their grip on the edge of the metal bedframe. Somewhere in it all, you reach some kind of oasis that you hadn’t known since God knows when. Not even as a kid… not even in any sleep you were familiar with… You’re floating and sinking and for once you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Only when you’re a dead weight settling into a blissed-out haze you can’t even begin to put words to, do you realize you’re smiling.


	2. The Growth

It’s a few months later. Life is good, considering. You’re still a high-strung mess sometimes, you’re still grinding your teeth at the way you’re ordered around, and people are still dying. But people are always dying, and you have your ways of dealing with it.

You’re at the end of a watch in one of the trenches with your men, and just in time. There’s an itch under your skin that makes you want to sink your teeth all the way to the gums into something while you blow off some steam. Instead you make sure someone’s taken your place, step through the mud to the bunkers, and dig around for the case. Once your fingers catch around it, a note of anxiety you didn’t expect to be there relaxes. You sigh, efficiently stripping off your belt and wrapping it around your left arm. You give a brief critical glance to the barcode tattooed on it, but that’s not the subject at hand. Needle filled, you do what’s needed with a practiced hand. You’re not on duty until another few hours, so you settle comfortably with your back against the wall, eyes going unfocused with the start of this familiar refrain.

Droog comes into the bunker a few minutes later, though you don’t particularly take notice. You think he stares at you a good long minute, and you drag your gaze reluctantly from nothing to his direction. There’s something in his expression… creased eyebrow, hard line of a mouth, but not angry, exactly…

You lose your train of thought and give a breathy laugh at him, words flowing from your tongue that you forget barely seconds later. It strikes you as fucking zen as hell, living in the moment or something like that. You might be telling Droog that.

The curtain draws to a close, and you sleep.


	3. The Decay

“They’re askin’ fer a fucking hellstorm is what they’re doin’, who the FUCK do they think they are—” You pace back and forth in the main den, spitting out the words in one breath and already inhaling for the next.

“They aren’t important, Slick. They’re the new fad at the edge of town that everyone’s crazed over. It’ll pass.” Droog’s just sitting there like he always does, expression controlled, though maybe less so around you. At least when you’re level-headed.

You need a goddamn hit. It’s been a while, and you’re getting to a level of irritability that ranks past even your usual standards. This whole new gang, the Felt or some shit, isn’t helping matters.

“THEY HELD UP A FUCKIN’ BANK, DROOG. THAT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE A FAD T’ ME, IT SOUNDS LIKE GETTIN’ COZY IN A NEW HOME.” You rarely shout at Droog and mean it, and you can tell he’s a little upset. That little mouth thing he does. The way his hand tightens. Jesus christ would the guy just let loose once in a while.

You’ve got a sheen of sweat on your neck and you can’t deal with this. New gang bullshit, your gang bullshit, your shirt is rubbing against your skin the wrong way, and your mouth is dry. Deuce and Boxcars are keeping quiet, trying to keep up the game of poker you’d dropped at the mention of the heist.

You growl in frustration, finally turning on your heels to stalk towards your room.

The hand grabbing your arm startles you and you nearly jump out of your skin, especially since it’s the left one. You whirl, snatching it close back against yourself and eyes darting quickly to meet Droog’s. They lock, but you can’t keep focus, or the will, and stare past his shoulder instead.

“ _…what_.” You say it as quietly as you can manage, clipped on the consonants.

“Come on, not tonight, Slick…” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose and still looking at you with those dark eyes of his.

You’re a little stunned that he would mention it. Mention that this whole thing exists.

You know it’s a bad sign when you start thinking of it as a _thing_. Like a disease is a thing. Something with weight to it.

“Fuckoff—” You hiss, turning your back on him, though your voice was strained. You shut the door, lock it. God, why did you lock it, you trusted these men more than anyone.

You’re a mess.

But things can get better.

You throw things across the room until you find sanctuary in a little glass bottle.

No. Things can’t get better like this.

You know that you started this to try to be better than dad. Not to be afraid. Or crazy. You wanted to be better than a nervy shit roaring for a fight or cringing in the dark.You couldn’t stand being tired.

You don’t care.

You feel so fucking hollow inside, and the hole just keeps yawning wider until the stopper hits the end of the needle.

Then everything feels just fine.


	4. The Hurt

It’s getting bad. No, things were already bad. It’s three years since you dropped into the middle of fuckall nowhere. Three years since this place started.

The city is doing fine.

You are not.

And, lucky you, it’s one of the really bad days. You stay where you are, sprawled on the couch, every cell buzzing until you feel like you could burn up. You have enough for another hit, and another after that, but you stay put a few seconds, bile in your stomach.

She had walked in on you.

 _She_ had walked in on you. Snowman, the woman you were trying to keep face with, the one who made you worry about every possible crack in your armor.

And made you forget about the biggest one.

Your mind replays how it happened. You were just finished with cleaning up, coming up from the now-stagnant waters of the opiate. Thoughts still a little hazy, you didn’t think about schedule, or timing, or reacting quickly enough when who should slide into your room like she owned the place.

You wince to think of the look of surprise she had. You thought she knew, for chrissake. What DIDN’T she know. And yet...

That same look. Eyebrows. Mouth. Eyes.

This time you were lucid enough to know what it was. She watched you, your hand still gripping the used syringe, frozen like a deer in headlights.

And she had a look of fucking pity on her face.

No. Anger you could take. Condescension. Lust. Amusement. Indignance. Even sorrow.

Not pity. Not compassion. Not from her.

Not from anyone.

You can’t take it. You can’t take someone caring so hard about you that they put their own emotions on the line to keep you from train wrecking yourself.

There’s only one solution you knew for things you can’t stand to bear. One way to just skip out on your own caring.

You sit up, hands shaking, teeth chattering. Your shirt is forgotten somewhere in the musty chaos of the room, and noonday streams down through the window slats, dust catching fire like starlight.

You wrap the belt, sink your teeth into it and relish the solidity of it. Something stable. You grab for—

The door opens. You wonder why it isn’t locked, and remember Snow.

Again, you’re caught with the glazed expression, eyes locking with your right hand man’s.

And for once, you can’t look away. He’s holding you to it, staring at you, studying you through and through. Seeing you in that entirety, from front-line expendable to archagent to…

To whatever pathetic creature from the bowels of the earth you are now.

He must see something in your expression. Or maybe just your condition, hunched over like that. Because just a second, and you see something more than pity. You feel the full force of an emotion so scorching hot and directed completely at you.

It’s gone in an instant, but your hand’s gone limp, lungs filling in with a gasp, muscles stopping and starting, unsure where to go from here.

Droog’s mouth tightens again.

Perhaps you aren’t the only person trying to run from how much you care.

“Droog—” Your voice is as fucked up as the wraith it belongs to.

“Save it.” The two words, barely above a conversational tone, cut out your vocal chords right then and there. He starts to turn, and you make a choked noise in your throat. You realize you’re this close to being abandoned.

“Don’t leave me.” The only reason you find the energy to speak is that now the blaze of those eyes isn’t magnified onto you. Until he looks over at you again.

Then he’s bearing down on you, in your face, and you know you’re at the end of your rope.  

And somehow, Droog’s there to pull you back out. Hands are on either side of your face, and if you thought you were burning up before, now you’ve turned to crackling dust left behind by lightning. You swim in his eyes, and there’s nothing gentle about it.

“Do you…really think I’m that shallow? Do you really have that little trust in me?” His voice is as always smooth as coffee, but never before did you see how radiant it could be. Pissed off, yeah. But radiant enough to make you feel your brain try to burn out from it.

“Just because you’re trying to destroy yourself, you think I’m going to just drop everything? Everything that matters?”

Things click in your head, and you realize how much of a fucking idiot you are.

Well, you already knew that, but it gains a whole new depth with that reply.

He straightens up again, having barely touched you, and you’re shaking. Part of it is because your nerves are crying for a goddamn hit. The other part is you coming to terms with the whole crazy ride this day has been.

Droog is gone. You look around the room. You stare at your hand and the glass glinting in the light.

You were always one for impulse. If you wait, you know you’ll be swallowed whole by the demons you’re hiding from.

You stand quickly, tearing a whole new mess in your room. You’re still a hound for your relentlessness, and you have one goal in mind.

You find all of it. Every needle. Every vial, empty or otherwise. Your hands are starting to jump like they’re electrocuted, but you force your muscles to cooperate. Not another. Not a single one.

You kick open the bathroom door, breath panting through your mouth. The tile floor is cool sanctuary enough while you sit in front of the toilet, starting your work. You dump it all in.

The moment of superficial victory you have as it all flushes away is interrupted seconds later.

You’re glad you’re in the bathroom already, and curl over yourself with the first few retching shudders.

There’s tears mixed into it by the time you feel a familiar hand bracing you through it all.


	5. The Old and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaand this is the last chapter!

The time is now.

You’re thirty-eight years old and you look like you’re edging fifty; you’ve got a bad eye, a bad arm, and a limp when it’s cold and rainy outside. You’re more tired than you used to be, but for once in your life, that’s okay. You keep yourself clean outside of nicotine and booze, and that suits you fine.

You still have trouble sleeping. Your dreams are still filled with tangled labyrinths and shadows stretching longer than they should. You’re still afraid sometimes.

Time doesn’t always heal wounds… but, strangely, sometimes they do. You wouldn’t call yourself mellow— okay yeah. You’re fucking mellow, considering.

Which doesn’t make you any less of a taciturn bastard.

It just means you’ve gotten better at taking care of yourself and people you care about. Or better at trying.

Your brother lives with you. You found him about a year back, when you thought you would never see him again. At first you thought maybe it was a ghost, or another dream—

But here he is, the second chance you never thought you would get, making his home on your couch. You don’t mind. You don’t mind at all.

Until he starts acting weird.

At first you think it’s because you’re the piece of shit brother who left him those years ago. Then you think it’s maybe because he isn’t getting the meds he needs. Needs. He still doesn’t tell you about English, but you have an idea or two.

You come home late, whistle on your tongue and the beat of some snazzy Armstrong tune stuck in your head. It takes you a minute, and you mutter halfhearted curses at the door when the key gets stuck at first. Finally you manage to shove it open. You assume Jack is asleep, or probably out around the city, considering his recent habits.

You didn’t expect him to be awake and in a state that made your heart drop straight through to the floor. He isn’t sprawled out like a mess, far from it. He’s sitting up, alert, foot tapping the floor while he stares off into whatever he sees without the eyes to see it. You’re not sure if he heard you come in, but he doesn’t show it.

Something sick forms in your gut, and you step around the edge of the room, watching him, taking in the view of the whole room.

Him in his own high-strung world, and for once not looking panicked about it.

The remaining dust on the table. A dime bag next to it.

“Hey bro, what’s up…” You hear him say, and his voice is stretched thin like a rubber band about to snap.

You have a strange sense of deja vu. You wonder if your face looks anything like Droog’s did those years ago, and the uneasiness in your stomach grows stronger.

“What’s up t’ yerself,” you reply, and at least you’ve kept that under tight reign. He shrugs and keeps up his nervous fidgeting, expression not changing a bit.

You remember what it was like to not care. You remember that numbness and how terrifying it was to know people cared more about it than you did.

You’re a little grateful that he can’t see your face like you saw Droog’s.

But unlike Droog, you don’t have that sense of control. You finally draw closer to the table, arms crossed.

“What’s with this, Jack,” you snap quietly, and he shifts to stare at you.

You see a lot in that look he gives you, and you know you have no right to lecture him. None. He can’t see the healed path of track marks on your arm, but that’s only the cherry on top he doesn’t know about. What he does know is that you left him, you’re the one who let him fall this low, you’re the one so blind you didn’t see it until now.

And as far as he can tell, you can never understand that.

You won’t let him fall. You can’t. This is your second chance, the only one you’ve got.

It’s selfish, but when is anything you do not selfish. You hate yourself for it, that even your own fucking brother’s well-being is rooted in feeling better about yourself… maybe. You desperately hope there’s more to it.

“I _said_ what’s with all this shit.” He growls right back at you, and you’ve never been angrier in your life. Not even at Snow, or your own fucked up fate.

And that’s it, you think. You’re angry for him. You know what it’s like on the other side, and you’re at one and the same time furious with that old you and the person in front of you, both not giving a damn thought to how fucking precious a life is. You have to care for him until he can too.

You swipe the shit off the table. You know he has more, but for now, it’s all you can do. You turn back to him, hackles raised and getting in his face. He’s coming down from it, you can tell, and his surprise when you grab his shoulders is a little more worn, a little more fragile.

You spend the next half hour screaming back and forth with him, and you know it’s useless. You know what it’s like to deafen yourself to everything you don’t want to hear. And you know he’s plugging his ears until you’re the enemy.

You almost leave him to walk it off, let out some steam into a night just as unbearably hot as the tense air between the two of you.

You almost leave him again.

He’s expecting you to. He’s expecting you to agree with him, that he’s not worth sticking around for.

Instead, jaw clenched, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable night, you walk past him and sit down. His head is tilted, listening to you, mouth worked into a confused frown. It breaks your heart that he’s already braced for you to abandon him, and that it startles him when you don’t.

You deserve it.

It takes a while, but he finally folds, slumping next to you on the couch. He doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him. You don’t have to, with the air brewing, settling, stirring up again. But slowly relaxing.

Hostile silence turns into resigned silence, and you both let out a pent up breath. You’re still rubbed raw, and it’s hard to swallow.

Jack doesn’t apologize, because it’s not his fault. You don’t apologize, because you know it’s just words, and words were never good with your family.

He starts to lean against your shoulder, and you quickly wrap an arm around him, chin resting on his head. You’d give anything to be a Felt at this moment, to have some sort of stupid power that lets you freeze time for the both of you.

You know a life was never saved with wishing on stars.

He’s still falling, that hasn’t changed. But maybe, just maybe, the two of you can make it going downhill.


End file.
